Work upward to thy hands, and loose their hold.
Phil. Know'st thou this powerful wand? 'tis lifted up;
A second stroke would send thee to the centre,
Benumbed and dead, as far as souls can die.
Grim. I would thou would'st, to rid me of my sense:
I shall be whooped through hell, at my return
Inglorious from the mischief I designed.
Phil. And therefore, since thou loath'st etherial light,
The morning sun shall beat on thy black brows;
The breath thou draw'st shall be of upper air,